When they returned to London, Reuben at first made a pretence of resuming his work.  He went now and then to the reading-room, and at home shut himself up in the study; but he no longer voluntarily talked of his task.  Cecily knew what had happened; the fatal lack of perseverance had once more declared itself.  For some weeks she refrained from inviting his confidence, but of necessity they spoke together at last.  Reuben could no longer disguise the ennui under which he was labouring.  Instead of sitting in the library, he loitered about the drawing-room; he was often absent through the whole day, and Cecily knew that he had not been at the Museum.

“I’m at a stand-still,” he admitted, when the opportunity came.  “I don’t see my way so clearly as at first.  I must take up some other subject for a time, and rest my mind.”

They had no society worth speaking of.  Mrs. Lessingham had supplied them with a few introductions, but these people were now out of town.  Earlier in the year neither of them had cared to be assiduous in discharging social obligations, with the natural result that little notice was taken of them in turn.  Reuben had resumed two or three of his old connections; a bachelor acquaintance now and then came to dine; but this was not the kind of society they needed.  Impossible for them to utter the truth, and confess that each other’s companionship was no longer all-sufficient.  Had Reuben been veritably engaged in serious work, Cecily might have gone on for a long time with her own studies before she wearied for lack of variety and friendly voices; as it was, the situation became impossible.

“Wouldn’t you like to belong to a club?” she one day asked.

And Reuben caught at the suggestion.  Not long ago, it would have caused him to smile rather scornfully.

Cecily had lost her faith in the great militant book on Puritanism.  Thinking about it, when it had been quite out of her mind for a few days, she saw the project in a light of such absurdity that, in spite of herself, she laughed.  It was laughter that pained her, like a sob.  No, that was not the kind of work for him.  What was?

She would think rather of her child and its future.  If Clarence lived—­if he lived—­she herself would take charge of his education for the first years.  She must read the best books that had been written on the training of children’s minds; everything should be smoothed for him by skilful methods.  There could be little doubt that he would prove a quick child, and the delight of watching his progress!  She imagined him a boy of ten, bright, trustful, happy; he would have no nearer friend than his mother; between him and her should exist limitless confidence.  But a firm hand would be necessary; he would exhibit traits inherited from his father—­